Wait
by pinkdigi
Summary: She is still his. [HG oneshot. warning: poorly written.]


**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

**Wait  
**……………………………………………………………

She checks the clock for the millionth time.

They – _he _– should be here any minute.

She stands up and paces the room. She catches her reflection in the mirror and frowns, her movements ceasing. She wishes she'd worn a different outfit, but knows that there is no time to change now. Her hair is a disaster, too. Should she have gotten it cut? It's awfully long. And then there's her face … her skin is smooth and her lips full, but her eyes give away her secrets. They are wide and show her emotions – fear, anger, anxiety – all too well. They are slightly blood-shot, and the bags under them show that she doesn't sleep at night. Instead, she stays up, desperately fighting against the pull of slumber, for in dreams, she is not safe. _He _is not safe.

She dreams of his death in many different ways. Sometimes, he is tortured. Other times, it is quick and painless, a simple _Avada Kedavra_. Her brother and Hermione are always there, sometimes dying alongside him, sometimes not. No matter what, though, he never dies with dignity. It is always cheap and wrong, because it isn't the death of the hero, it is the death of a coward. Sometimes, amidst his screams of pain, he cries out and begs to be killed. This is when she can be sure that what she is seeing is just a dream, because she knows that he would never give up, especially in the face of Voldemort.

Still, each night, she would wake up in a cold sweat, a scream of terror dancing on her lips, threatening to spill out and wake her household, which now only consists of herself and her parents. But she doesn't want her mum to worry, because she is the only child left that doesn't need to be worried about, so she resigns herself to staying up each night and remembering happier times, times the two of them spent down at the lake at lunch hour, times spent laughing about Ron and Hermione or talking about Quidditch or just sitting in silence, all the while basking in the knowledge that _she is his _and _he is hers_.

She is still his.

She accepts that he has a destiny … that _he has things he has to do alone now_, as he put it, all those months ago at Dumbledore's funeral … but that doesn't change anything, really. Not to her, at least.

Wrenching her eyes away from the mirror, she looks out her window to see if they have arrived yet, knowing perfectly well that her window faces the wrong way and will not tip her off one way or the other.

It doesn't matter, though. She does this just as she checks the clock even though she doesn't know what time they are supposed to arrive, because it helps her keep a lid on her nerves.

She runs a hand through her hair and wonders if she should try a Glamour Charm on herself, but then tells herself not to bother because he doesn't care what she looks like. Not anymore.

She groans in frustration and lightly bangs her head against the wall.

This is ridiculous.

How could this have happened to them?

They were once so young, so innocent. They would hold hands while they walked to Hagrid's Hut. He would kiss her softly before she went up to bed each night, and it would hardly even count as a kiss, but because her brother was watching, it was cute and sweet and meaningful. And when he broke up with her, he sounded so torn up that even though she tried to believe he had only used her and that she would do well to forget about him, she couldn't.

This is _so _bloody ridiculous.

They are hardly any older that they were the first time they kissed, and yet they are no longer innocent, no longer happy or free or _safe_, not even in each other's arms.

Her thoughts are cut off by the sound of Ron's booming voice down in the kitchen. Her heart clenches, as it does every month when they return home.

She listens long enough to know that the conversation in the kitchen is light and happy, and she feels the knot in her stomach unwind slightly because she knows – for now, at least – that _he_ is safe.

She doesn't know why the three of them had to leave, and she certainly doesn't know where they took off to. She thinks her mum might know a bit of information, because there's no way in hell she'd ever let Ron leave for an undisclosed reason, especially since the war is getting worse and worse by the day and it is no longer save to go outside without protection. But Ginny cannot bring herself to ask her mum questions, so she remains in the dark about everything. Perhaps it is better this way.

There was one condition, of course, that they had to agree to before her mum agreed to let them go: they had to come back to The Burrow once a month, to catch up. (Really, the purpose of this monthly visit is to let everyone know that they are still alive, but "catching up" has a nicer sound to it, so that's what they call it around here.)

She does not go down to the kitchen to greet them. She stays in her room, as she always does, and takes deep breaths, trying to slow her racing heart.

He takes longer than he normally does, and her stomach twists at the thought that soon, they will not be able to meet up like this at all. Everyone is, no doubt, getting suspicious – her mum often asks questions about _him_, but she doesn't answer any of them.

To be perfectly honest, she thinks they all know what is going on. She tries to believe that they do not notice when he slips away to see her, but that is getting more and more impossible to do.

They aren't _idiots_, after all.

_She _is the only idiot around here.

Just as she starts to wonder if he'll show up at all, there is a knock on her door.

She jumps but quickly collects herself. She counts to three before opening the door and hates herself for trying to make it look like she is not eager to see him, because she is, and it could not be more obvious that she is.

She opens the door and he is there, just as he always is. She releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and moves out of the way. He comes into her bedroom and is not wearing a smile, does not tell her that it is good to see her or that he has missed her. He just shuts the door behind him quickly and looks at her. She nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and waits to see if he will do anything. She crosses her fingers behind her back that he will, because no matter how much she wishes it wasn't like this, she knows she wants this to be happening, at least for now.

He kisses her and immediately his hands are on her, letting her know that their time is limited. She already knows this, of course. It is always limited. But she threads her hands in his hair and doesn't protest when he pushes her against the wall and starts to unbutton her shirt. She wore a button-down for this reason, after all.

Ever the believer in equality, she makes quick work of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the side. It lands near her bed, the one they used to use back when they had more time, back when he would come up here and nobody ever suspected that they were doing anything more than talking for that precious hour or two. She remembers, wistfully, those few times when they could explore each other properly, taking the time to memorize every freckle and every scar.

He knows her freckles by now, though, and although she wishes they still had those same luxuries as before, she accepts that they must be quick and discreet about things. She knows that she is lucky to even have this much.

She remembers the first time they were together. Bill's wedding had just ended and all the guests were gone. She was in her room being a nervous wreck, because she knew that they were leaving in the morning. She didn't know where Hermione was, nor did she care. She preferred to be alone in her bedroom, anyway. There was a knock on the door and she thought it was Hermione, but it was _him_. He sat down on the bed next to her and he kissed her – or maybe _she_ kissed _him_ first – and soon they were making love, just as she had imagined them doing while back at Hogwarts, before everything had gone to shite around them.

She remembers how he kissed her softly when it was over and whispered that he was sorry it had to be this way … how they both dressed awkwardly, unable to look at each other, knowing that they were not starting over again, but were merely saying goodbye.

He kisses her neck now, bites at it lightly, and her heart is heavy with the knowledge that he still loves her just as much as she loves him, that they hadn't _just _been saying goodbye that night, but that they were also saying everything they couldn't say out loud.

He doesn't say that he loves her – he never does. He doesn't dare. But she knows, just as he knows that she loves him and that this separation is really starting to drive her mad.

Her bra is unsnapped in the back now and pushed up, exposing her chest, and she wonders why she even thought to put one on in the first place. But then his mouth slides down her neck to her chest and she doesn't want to think, just feel.

She feels his desire against her abdomen and her hands find their way to the front of his trousers. Her fingers shake with anticipation as she undoes them and they fall around his ankles, but he doesn't bother stepping out of them and she doesn't expect him to.

Instead, he reaches under her skirt and dips his fingers into her knickers, making her bite her lip to keep from moaning as her hips buck against him.

They don't talk. They never do. Well, maybe they did that first time, but it was long ago and she can't seem to remember. His thumb circles her clit slowly as he plunges two fingers inside of her, and she arches against his hand, silently begging him to speed up, and he obliges. She presses her mouth against his when her inner muscles clench around his fingers, and he swallows her moans, his fingers slowing as she winds down, gasping for breath.

Unwilling to wait any longer, she tugs off his boxers and he slides her knickers down her legs. She kicks them away and he pushes her skirt up around her hips. She wraps her legs around him, looking at him to see his eyes darkened with lust and searching hers for permission.

She nods in allowance – though, really, she'd allow just about anything right now – and he teases her with the tip of him for a moment before slamming into her. His name is on her lips and this time, she can't hold it in. He is moving insider of her, fast and deep, and she almost can't take it. It's so good, _too _good, and she can feel her release building yet again. He is getting close. She can tell by the way he teases her breasts with his hands, by the way he moves faster and harder into her; by the way he whispers her name in her ear as he nibbles on it. She knows that they might be caught at any moment, that they are both being loud now and anyone might hear them, but this only serves to fuel their passion. He reaches a hand between them and strokes her, and she can hardly stand the pleasure that washes over her in waves when she comes, nor can she hardly stand the overwhelming emotion that is triggered afterward.

She is not sure if she cries out, not sure if he does when he explodes deep inside of her moments later.

She hates herself. She hates that she cannot get over Harry Potter. She hates that she _doesn't want to_ get over him, that she has absolutely no ambition to forget his name or his touch or the feelings he rouses inside of her heart. She hates that he can't just swallow his idiotic need to protect her. She hates that he doesn't even realize he's _killing _her, not _saving _her, and that thirty minutes of sex every month is _not _enough. She hates that she still has hope for their future, and that he does, too. She hates that she can't even bring herself to hate him, not really, not the way she'd like to.

She is panting, her head is spinning, and she does not have enough discipline over her emotions to move away from him. Her head falls back against the wall and he slumps against her, his cheek pressed against her chest, both of their bodies slick with sweat.

She unwinds her legs from around him and she hates the emptiness she feels now that he is no longer inside of her. He holds her to him and suddenly he is older than seventeen, and when she looks at him, she can see the pain in his eyes, the worry that he won't live to see her for their next "catch up" session, and the love he has only for her.

There are many things she wants to say to him. She wants to tell him that she loves him, that she lives for the precious time she gets alone with him each time he comes to visit, that she knows he will live past this war simply because she won't be able to handle it if he doesn't.

Instead, she tells him about the bloke who has been over for dinner several nights these past few weeks. 'Dad works with his dad at the Ministry. They're trying to set us up,' she explains, as if he cares. As if _she _cares.

'Yeah?' he says. 'Do you like him?'

He sounds a little concerned, and she likes it too much to keep the smile off her face.

'No,' she says truthfully. 'He's nice enough, though. I'm probably going to be seeing him again soon.'

'I'm surprised your mum's allowing it.'

She sighs. 'It was partially her idea, actually,' she says, running her fingers through his messy hair. 'I don't know. I guess she thinks if I have a boyfriend, I won't be so busy worrying about you.'

She does not see a need to lie or pretend around him.

'Are you going to shag him?' he asks, so bluntly that she is temporarily caught off-guard. They normally do not cross over into conversations that show emotions of any sort.

'He's not you,' she says, and he says nothing else because that is answer enough. He is the only one she has ever been with and she does not want it another way.

He lifts his head to look at her, and she is pleased by the fierce possessiveness she sees in his eyes.

'Good,' he says. He moves away from her then, pulling up his trousers and crossing the room to grab his shirt. She puts her knickers back on, lowers her skirt down around her legs again, re-fastens her bra and buttons up her shirt.

When they are both dressed again, she looks at him and runs her fingers through his hair, trying to tame it somewhat. He leans forward and kisses her forehead, and in a "relationship" such as theirs, where everything is planned and thought out and carefully orchestrated to show no emotion other than lust, the unexpected gesture brings tears to her eyes. She turns away to hide them, because Harry Potter is her biggest weakness but she refuses to show him that.

'This will be over soon,' he says, and she is sure he is talking about the war, and not their relationship. 'I'm almost ready to fight him. And then … you know.'

She wants to turn around, to scream, _No, I don't know_, but she opts for biting her lip and closing her eyes, instead.

'Yeah?' she forces out.

She hears him draw a breath, as if preparing to say something important, but a knock at the door cuts him off.

'Come in,' she says quickly, hating the person at the door because she is suddenly very curious as to what he was about to say.

Ron walks in, followed by Hermione.

'Ginny,' says Ron, smiling.

She knows that Ron knows what she and Harry do. She can tell by the way he can't quite meet her eyes immediately after Ron and Hermione finish talking to Mrs Weasley and come upstairs to join their friends. In some way, though, he must be okay with it, or _at least _accept it. He always gives them time, after all. If he wants to make sure they are never alone together, he is free to tag along when Harry makes his way up to her room. But he never does.

She smiles just the same, kissing his cheek in greeting and then hugging Hermione hello, telling them that it is good to see them. It isn't a lie, but the complete truth is that she would rather be with Harry right now than with all three of them. That makes her an awful friend, and awful sister, and she knows it, but she doesn't care.

She and Hermione sit on the edge of her bed and Ron and Harry take the floor. She remembers nights that the four of them stayed up during the summer, talking and laughing. She remembers the very first time she officially met Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. It was the summer before her first year and they had avoided her – or perhaps she had avoided them, because of her embarrassing crush on Harry that she was certain Ron had told him all about.

And now, she does not recognize the people in front of her. The girl who was once her sort-of best friend, the boy who was once her boyfriend, and the other boy, who is still her brother, but different, somehow … unfamiliar in a way that makes her heart ache. But they are no longer children. They are _warriors_, and when she thinks of what lies ahead of them, she thinks she could drown in the waves of terror that wash over her.

They talk for a long time, though she can't help but notice that she and Harry never speak directly.

She wants to stand up, to scream that Harry just fucked her against the very wall Ron is staring off into space at. She wants to sob and throw things, because Harry loves her and he is supposed to care about her enough to let her take the risk and be with him. But she holds her tongue and stares resolutely at the floor, and when Hermione asks her softly if she is okay, she nods and says she is wonderful.

'I've got a great story to tell you,' says Ron, looking up at her brightly. He pauses for a moment when Mrs Weasley yells up to them that dinner is ready. 'Oh. Mum'll go nutters if she hears it. Can you wait until after dinner?' he asks, but is already standing to go eat, regardless of her answer.

'I can wait as long as it takes,' she says, looking at Harry, and he looks back, meeting her eyes for the first time since Ron and Hermione came in. He looks shocked and – yes, hopeful – at her words.

And the worst part is that she means them.

……………………………………………………………


End file.
